


Teen Wolves & Crazy Witches

by Peter Hale (RyloKen)



Series: "Don't Resurrect Yourself. Seriously, Don't." A Cautionary Tale By Peter Hale [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: At least I think it's crack, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Good Peter, He Won't Think So Though, He really shouldn't, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, It Might Not Be Crack, Magic, Peter Has Feelings, Peter Rents Out The Spare Room In His Apartment, Peter is a player, Swearing, The Good Kind Of Hell, This Is Really Just An Excuse To Put Peter Through Hell, lots of swearing, whether he likes it or not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8102236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyloKen/pseuds/Peter%20Hale
Summary: Alone, and frankly quite sick of it, Peter decides to rent out the spare room in his apartment.As with everything else in his life, it doesn't go well. That is to say it goes so badly he's left wondering why he didn't just stay dead and buried under the floorboards of his family home.At least he could have haunted Derek that way.





	1. Peter Rents His Spare Room Out

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> I don't know what I'm doing. Like at all. I started this because I wanted to try to get back into writing but my words, bah, my words were failing me. So I figured, "Hey, why not bullshit my way through a story that's going no where and doesn't make sense and see how that goes?!" It went. I don't know how this happened but I sort of, really kind of, like how crazy this little piece turned out. Like it enough actually that I want to try bullshitting my way through a small series. It's Peter Hale, you really can't go wrong.
> 
> This story is really just a bit of fun. But knowing me, plot will get in the way, feels will happen and it'll probably end up like my first attempt at a one-shot - over 100k words. Fair warning, I haven't written and finished anything in over, like, two years. Sigh. This is probably a bad idea. But oh well. 
> 
> I'll repeat, this is probably going to be a story with next to no actual plot. It has pretty much no direction. Like my life. Hahahahaha. Ahem. Enjoy? And please comment if you do. Also remember that I don't know what I'm doing haha.
> 
> Timeline-wise, this is set mid-S4, after the Dead Pool is stopped but before the trip to Mexico. Peter got his money back and left BH. For reasons, he never had a deal with Kate, and he left on relatively decent terms with Derek. He doesn't know what happened to Derek in Mexico. Neither Braeden nor Malia exist.

Peter Hale had many great qualities. He was charming, highly intelligent, strategically cunning and he was ridiculously good looking. He was funny, not that anyone understood his dark humor, if they bothered to look passed the sass and snark to begin with. He was great at holding a conversation, if the other person involved was on equal ground mentally – which was sadly hard to come across. Peter didn’t like feeling alone, but he’d rather spend his time within his own head than trying to talk to an idiot.

Peter was an exceptional cook and had a keen nose for perfect wines. He had taste, and fashion sense. No one would ever claim Peter Hale was uncultured. Or an unsuccessful player. Though he hated the term, he had an unprecedented ability to pull chicks. Peter thought of himself as a man that appreciated the female form, not some college douche that banged whatever batted its lashes at him. He knew what he was doing, and he’d never had a complaint.

He was rich, but he didn’t flaunt it – he wasn’t a pompous prick after all. He’d almost been flat broke for a while there – fucking banshees' – but eventually he’d gotten all of his money back, and then some.

And then he’d gotten the hell out of Beacon Hills.

Which led Peter to realize that if he lacked anything, it was a patience for people and their never-ending bullshit.

He didn’t need a roommate, he owned his apartment after all, but Peter wanted the sort of company that didn’t stem from rolling around in his expensive sheets. Sex with beautiful women was all well and good, but he didn’t want to have to engage in small talk with someone he’d only taken home because they’d both had an itch to scratch.

If Peter wanted awkward chatter, he’d call his nephew. Which was never going to happen.

Sighing, Peter let his head drop backwards and stared at his ceiling as he willed himself to stay sane. His hand was pressed to the door, held firm as the person on the other side of it loitered and paced in tight circles as if trying to build the courage needed to knock again.

Peter had gotten one smell of the guy and promptly slammed the door. He was _not_ living with a bald cupid that stunk of cupcakes and anxiety.

Several minutes passed before the unlikely angel finally left, a deep exhale marking his accepted defeat. Peter wasn’t opposed to living with another supernatural being, but he had to draw a line somewhere.

He made it as far as his kitchen before a cheerful knock echoed through the hallway. He turned, sighed, and seriously regretted ever putting an ad out there. Maybe being alone wasn’t so bad.

Opening the door, he stared the younger man down. A moment passed before he was met with a flash of pearly white teeth and vibrant gold eyes. _Great._

“Hi!”

Maybe he wasn’t here for the room…

“I saw your ad on the forums?”

Fuck.

“Aren’t you a little young to be out on your own? Where’s your pack?”

Despite his tone of voice, the kid – who surely wasn’t much older than eighteen – didn’t flinch. He grinned all the brighter, and stared Peter down with eyes the color of freshly cut grass and three sizes too big for his head. _Jesus_.

“If I have a pack, they failed to tell me. But, you know, fuck them, right? I don’t need them. I do need you, though. Your room, I mean. Sorry, I made things awkward.”

The rapid flail of his heartbeat was nearly endearing, or it would be if it wasn’t giving Peter a migraine. He sighed for the millionth time that day, stepped aside and held the door open, “You should probably see the room before you celebrate.”

Relief flooded his hallway, drenched his walls and stained his nose. That it was mixed with the kind of nervous excitement only teenagers could create had his shoulders slumping. A teenage werewolf, great. He couldn’t get away from them.

“To your left is the kitchen,” Peter started, and pretty much let the kid wander. He was too old and too tired for this shit. And he was definitely taking the ad down.

Several long minutes filled with snooping and casually high-pitched noises of interest passed before Peter led the teen to what would be his room. Peter accepted that he wasn’t getting the kid out, even if he wanted to. Fucking teenagers.

“It’s not huge, or lavish, but it’s furnished.”

When he flicked the light on, he was assaulted by a wave of unadulterated glee. The teen – he should get his name – breezed passed him with a grin that almost split his face open. He inspected everything, touched it long enough to leave behind his scent. _Ugh._

“It’s perfect!” He trilled, his voice high as he dropped onto the bed and bounced a few times. He even rolled. _Rolled._ Ugh!

Peter really thought he’d gotten free of a life filled with teenage _everything_ and yet here he was, surrounded by that damned scent again. He should have stayed in Beacon Hills, at least he could have spent his days tormenting Derek.

Sighing, his arms shifting to cross over his chest, he sent an unimpressed look at the teen and ignored polite protocol, “When were you bitten?”

“I wasn’t,” without even a pause, the kid grinned at him, bounced off the bed and moved to the window to throw it open. He inhaled deeply, set his hands on the ledge a moment before he turned, pressed his hip against the wood. “I’m a born wolf. I was abandoned because of it. The woman who carried me was human and clearly not prepared for that. Insert sad baby-in-a-box tale here, add a dash of horrible foster system there and boom, here we are.”

“You’re rather well adjusted.”

“I just turned eighteen, I’m out of the system, out of that hellhole they called my home, and against all of their expectations I have a roof over my head, a werewolf roommate who doesn’t stink of omega crazy and is asking so little rent that I won’t even have to offer sexual favors to make the payments.”

Peter blinked. What. He sighed again, a deeply disturbed sound before he pressed a hand to his face and wandered why he hadn’t just stayed in the hole under the living room floorboards. Haunting Derek didn’t sound so bad now.

“Look,” and the tone the kid had adopted was low and lost and _bleagh_. Peter would kill anyone who accused him of going soft.

“What’s your name?”

Startled, the teen twisted his hands in his shirt, stunk so badly of anxiety that it caused Peter’s head to spin. “I don’t really have one? I mean, they gave me one in the orphanage but it wasn’t anything personal. There were twelve other Stephen’s, and those were just the ones in my age bracket. It could be worse, I guess, I could have been lumped with Geppetto, or Herbert. Who the fuck calls their kid Herbert? Seriously. Stephen’s just…it’s not…”

“You?”

Slumping against the window frame, he nodded and stared at his feet. Eventually he looked up, eyes sad and unsure and _Jesus,_ Peter must have left his iron will in the grave.

“Do you like books?”

“I don’t –” he paused, shrunk in on himself, “I don’t really know how to read all that well.”

Peter’s brow curved high over his left eye, a silent question that the boy ignored in favor of staring a hole into the carpet. Letting his arms drop, Peter nodded over his shoulder, “Come with me.”

He trusted the boy to follow him, led him into the living room and over to a heavy set of bookshelves. The dark wood was striking and set off the white walls surrounding the room. Peter trailed his fingers along the leather bound spines, spared a look over his shoulder as the teen fidgeted behind him. Finding the book he was looking for, he unwound its leather cord, flipped gently through the old pages until he found the story he was looking for. He held it out to the teen and nodded for him to take it.

“That’s a wolf,” he muttered as he gingerly traced his fingertips over the image and the swirling letters beneath it before he frowned. “I can’t read any of this.”

“It’s the legend of Fenrir, also known as Fenris. He was the child of Loki, trickster god, and the giantess Angroboda. He was born a wolf, and he was prophesied to bring about the end of the world.”

“Ragnarok.”

Smirking, Peter hummed and nodded, “You know the tale?”

“I know bits and pieces. Mostly from movies, so what I know is probably wrong.” He frowned, held the book out and met Peter’s gaze. “Why’d you show me this?”

Peter took the book, studied it a moment before he closed it, tied it and set it back on the shelf, “Fenrir wasn’t just the wolf destined to bring about the end of the world, he was the very epitome of strength and destruction. He killed Odin, which I imagine was no small task. The gods feared him; and anyone, wolf or man, whom the gods fear…”

It took a moment before the grin was back, before he held his hand out with eyes bright, “I’m Fenris.”

Satisfied, Peter took his hand, held it firm and shook, “Peter Hale.”

The teen settled in pretty quickly, wandered the apartment and looked everywhere before he found Peter again and dropped onto the chair next to him. He waited a heartbeat before he spoke up, voice shaking with false bravado.

“I have some rules.”

Peter set his book aside, turned his attention on Fenris, “As do I. We’ll go over them both and I’ll make print outs that we’ll both sign. Would you like a drink?”

He didn’t bother waiting for a response, simply went to the kitchen and returned with a can of Coke and a bottle of water. Setting the drinks on the table, he grabbed his laptop, set it in front of him and opened a fresh document. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“No funny business.” The teen blurted, eyes too wide before he sat and took a hold of his drink. Peter shouldn’t have found him amusing.

“Define funny business.”

Puffing out his chest, he looked Peter in the eye and nodded, “No bad touches, especially when I’m asleep. If I wake up and you’re on me, I’ll kill you. I’ve done it before, so don’t doubt me for a second.”

“No inappropriate touching, a rule we agree on.” Peter added the rule to the list before he paused, looked the teen over darkly. “You don’t have the blue eyes of a killer.”

“I don’t feel the guilt of a killer. I did what I had to in order to survive. There’s a difference.”

Nodding, Peter finished off outlining the rule, “I’ll make it easier. Our rooms are off limits to each other unless invited in.”

“I can agree to that. I don’t have much but privacy is important to me.”

“And to me.”

“No parties.”

Startled, Peter raised a brow, held it long after the boy turned bright pink and stumbled over his next words.

“I, uh, don’t do well around large groups of people I don’t know. And I don’t have any…ahem…I don’t have friends so I won’t be throwing any late night piss-ups.”

Peter typed it in, “I don’t have friends either.”

“What about pack?”

He thought about it, wondered if telling the teen about the fistful of crazy back in Beacon Hills was worth it, before he decided against it and shrugged, “I have a nephew and a niece, neither of which want me in their lives. Beyond that, I’m my own pack.”

“Cool.”

“You’re to go to school.”

“What?!” Startled enough that the shout was broken up, Fenris choked down some Coke, set the can aside with shaking hands and scowled. “What the hell for?”

“You can’t read.”

At the bland tone and blander look, Fenris grumbled into his drink, “I should have returned to my baby-box.”

“You’re welcome to it, if you wish. But school isn’t as bad as you think.”

“I’m eighteen and I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ll probably be forced to repeat senior year, if I’m not pushed back to junior year altogether. Fuck my life, I’m going to be a joke. If you let me get a job instead, I’ll rethink the bad-touch rule?”

Jesus. Christ.

Peter sighed and barely resisted the urge to bash his head on the table, “You look young, young enough to pass as a junior anyway. I’ll have papers made up so you’ll fit in and no one will ask questions. Congratulation’s, you’re sixteen going on seventeen.”

“Wait, you can do that?”

“Yes.” Peter refused to elaborate.

They fell into an awkward silence that neither of them wanted to acknowledge before the quiet was interrupted by enthusiastic knocking. They shared a look before the hall echoed with another round of happy knocks, a different tune this time.

Peter shoved from his seat and wandered down the hall. He barely had the door open before the smell hit him, a pleasant mix of vanilla ice-cream and winter-warmth.

“Hello handsome!”

What?

“Can I help you?”

“You can! Here, hold this!”

Peter was too startled by the cake being forced on him that he had no time to stop the woman from waltzing into his apartment. She breezed by him, a whirlwind of dark skirts and darker hair. His mind grew dizzy as he was bashed into submission by more of that scent, the ice-cream and snow now mixed with heady undertones of earth and the calm before a storm. Peter wanted to know how she managed to smell that way, but he'd learned long ago to just ignore such curiosities.

He followed the woman into the kitchen, set the cake on the counter and made to talk. His words died on his tongue when she gave him a bright smile and turned with a swish of fabric and loose-curls and left him standing in the archway.

She scoped out the living room, hummed over his books, clicked her tongue over his music collection. He paused when she started towards him, was expecting her to speak but instead she twirled out of his line of vision and wandered straight into what was now Fenris’ room. The teen did not approve.

“Oi! That’s my room!”

They both jumped out of the way when she exited the room, her eyes wide, “It stinks of teenage dog in there. You should shower more often, puppy.”

Then she was gone again, snooping through the room on the other side of the main bathroom. Peter spared Fenris a look, but the boy simply shrugged and lifted a forkful of cake to his lips.

“Don’t look at me, I just live here.”

Peter scoffed and went into his study, found the woman turning slow circles in the middle of the floor. Before he could get a word out, she pointed at him and waved, smiled and laughed brightly.

“This space is fantastic! It’s perfect!”

“I’m sorry, but I advertised a single room–”

“It’s mine and I’ll fight for it.”

What was his life.

Peter dropped his head, rubbed a soothing hand over his brow and reminded himself that murder was frowned upon.

“I’m sorry, but he’s right. We were working on the contract when you arrived. I haven’t gotten around to taking the advert down.”

He expected yelling, maybe some tears, he didn’t expect a happy gush of laughter. He looked her over, watched as she waved him off and smiled as if he hadn’t just given her the bad news.

“He can have that room; I don’t like it anyway. I’ll have this one.”

“It’s my study.”

She blinked at him as if he were stupid, before she looked to the chair shoved in the corner, the small coffee table beside it. When she looked at him again, it was with a look that reminded him far too much of his mother.

“Look–”

“Do you like this chair?”

“Huh?”

“The chair, do you like it?”

“Well, no, not–”

Before he could finish, the chair was gone with a _whoosh_ , the table following it. When the room was bare, which it mostly was to begin with, she smiled at him and nodded.

“Now it’s not your study.”

“But–”

“Excuse me, privacy please. You don’t see me standing in your room, taking up all your space.”

“What?! This is my room!”

“I don’t see your stuff in it.”

“You just–” he paused, inhaled slowly to calm the storm building in his gut. When he met her defiant gaze, he told himself his tone was nothing like that of a petulant child. “I don’t see your stuff in here either.”

With a clap and a great thump, a bed the size of a small car _whooshed_ into existence. It dominated the room, the thick frame heavy and weighed down by a mountain of satin duvets and plush pillows.

What.

The fuck.

“That’s my bed. Where’s your bed? Not here? Oh, well, would you look at that. My bed, my room.”

“She has a point.”

“Shut up, you little traitor,” Peter turned his scowl on Fenris, who buried his startled look into the cake. “And use a plate! Jesus!”

When the teen simply stared at him as if he were mad, he growled, a deep and animal sound in the back of the throat, and rounded on the woman.

“Look, lady–”

“Lady is a dog in a Disney movie,” she tutted, pushed at the wave of black silk she called hair and smiled at him. “I’m Tanith.”

“Newly named Fenris,” he waved with his fork, a happy grin on his cake-stained gob.

_Jesus._

“Foreshadowing! And cute. So cute!”

_Fucking._

“You should move your bed, otherwise you’ll have no room for anything else.”

She nodded with his assessment, and then, with a wave of her hand, the bed shifted across the room and settled in the far corner.

“Holy fuck, she’s a Jedi!”

_Christ._

“I prefer Sith Lord, thank you very much,” she placed a long-fingered hand on her wide hip, stared them down for a long moment before she clapped loudly, doubled over and positively _cackled_. “I’m just kidding. But that was cool right? So cool! I just learned it! Ahh, I didn’t think it would work!! I am a god!”

A teenage werewolf that couldn’t read.

A batshit crazy witch.

And him.

It was due payment for resurrecting himself, it had to be.

“I’m so staying!”

“You’re so not.”

“She so is.”

“No, she’s really not.”

“Oh don’t be such a Sourwolf.”

He should have just stayed dead.


	2. Not So Good Morning

Peter woke slowly. His alarm was chirping at him, soft morning birds singing their happy songs.

He hated it.

He hated mornings.

He hated that damned dream he had.

With a groan, he rolled over, buried his face into a ridiculously soft pillow and willed his body to wake beyond its slightly-less-than-dead state. Why couldn’t it be afternoon already?

Inhaling, he slapped a hand on the alarm, then palmed around blindly for his phone. Snatching it from the nightstand, he opened it, cracked one eye open and stared blurrily at the screen as he checked his emails.

And the forums.

He found nothing. No proof that his dream hadn’t been a dream, no proof that the nightmare was actually real. He hadn’t put up an ad for the spare room. He hadn’t spent the previous day swamped by random people.

He hadn’t been invaded by a mouthy kid, or steamrolled over by a bat-shit crazy witch.

Life was _good_.

Dropping his phone onto the pillow beside his head, he burrowed deep and smiled broadly. Nightmares he could handle, they were easily forgotten.

Eventually the time came for him to finally get up, and he did so with a spring in his step. He sauntered into his ensuite, started up his morning ritual. He sang to himself in the shower, grinned at himself in the mirror as he splashed away the last of the shaving cream, and all but slid across the floorboards on his way out of his room.

Towel slung low on his hips, he grabbed both handles, pushed down, pulled back, and –

Walked right into Hell.

“Good _morning_ , Sexywolf!”

No.

“If I’d known I could get a view like that with my morning coffee, I would have moved in ages ago! Hot damn, those abs!”

Oh no.

“Abs for days, Fenris. Look.”

“Trying not to.”

“Mmm, those shoulders, and that chest hair.” The way her eyes lit up with magic had a shiver running down Peter’s spine. She lifted her cup in salute, waggled her fingers at him and positively purred, “ _Unf_ , I’d climb that like a _tree_.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, _stop_. I’m trying to eat.”

She cooed at the teenager, reached into his space and pinched his cheeks, and then giggled like a school girl when his eyes flashed golden and he gave her a displeased snarl. She was up and out of her seat the next second, rounding on him and pressing kisses into his sleep mused hair, much to the teenager’s disbelief and chagrin. When he pushed her away with a whine, she went, bright smile in place, and wandered into the kitchen as if she’d been living there from day one.

Peter was asleep. He had to be.

He lifted his hands, studied his fingers intently.

_One, two, three…_

“The fuck is he doing?”

_Four, five, six…_

“Shush, don’t interrupt his concentration.”

“What, why?”

_Seven, eight, nine…_

“If he’s concentrating on counting his fingers, he’s not noticing how close his towel is to falling off those sexy hips.”

_Ten…_

Jesus. _Fuck._

“Could you be any creepier?”

“I don’t think you want me to accept that challenge.”

Peter stepped back into his room, slammed the doors closed and threw himself against them with a frantic whine rising in his chest.

Not a dream.

Not a nightmare.

_Real!_

“No, no. It’s not. It can’t be. I’m losing my mind,” he paused, turned and gingerly opened one of the doors. He peaked through the gap, spotted the empty table, the empty kitchen, and sighed.

False alarm.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t scream, he really did not. The noise that left his throat was nothing of the sort. He did slam the door though, flicked the lock and stumbled away from it, arms up as if at any second it would shatter open and some monstrous beast would come charging in to rip him to shreds.

When nothing happened, he grabbed a pair of sweats, dragged them on and began to pace. What the fuck was going on. He ignored the knock, mostly ignored the quiet questions of the timid teen wolf, and definitely ignored the suggestive catcalls coming from the kitchen.

He could hardly tune everything out though.

_“Oh come on Shywolf, I won’t bite you. Unless you like that. You think it’s a wolf thing? Has to be. Think he’d bite me if I asked?”_

_“That’s disgusting.”_

_“It’s just biting, not like I brought up any of the other things I was thinking of letting him do to me.”_

_“Holy fuck, I am so done here. I actually want to go to school!”_

_“They have school on Saturdays? You poor kids, no wonder none of you lot are happy.”_

_“What? No they don’t have school on Saturdays, what century are you living in?”_

_“I’m really not too sure, actually.”_

Why was he hiding?

He’d faced far worse than those two. Were-lizards, geriatric psychopaths and banshees’. He’d battled alpha twins that merged into one terrifying mutant alpha, and he’d killed a professional assassin that had no mouth! He’d survived a thousand-year-old Nogitsune and the Oni it’d controlled.

He’d come back from the fucking dead!

Why was he scared of a mouthy teenager and a horny witch?

Scared? Him, Peter Hale? Not even close.

He dragged on a moss green Henley, steeled his spine and decided now was the time to lay down the law.

He was the Alpha damn it. Him.

Except whatever speech he had planned died in his throat when he opened the doors and was greeted by said horny witch. She smiled brightly at him, held out a giant mug of coffee, and offered him the newspaper.

A fucking newspaper.

“Uh, thanks?”

“Such a Graciouswolf!” She flicked a finger into the cleft in his chin, positively beamed and then flitted away with her long hair swishing around her hips.

He stared a long moment before he frowned, “Is that my shirt?!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she laughed, waved him off and set an empty plate at the head of the table. When she looked at him expectantly, he wandered over, sat, and met Fenris’ gaze.

“Seriously, don’t question her. She gets hands-y when you question her,” he muttered into his breakfast, eyes wide but with a glint of a challenge in them, a dash of amusement. The kid wanted him to question her.

Jesus.

She stopped at his side, fingers twisting in the hem of what was definitely one of his shirts, and nibbled at her bottom lip, “Is the coffee okay?”

Peter blinked. He looked to the cup in his hand, looked to the teenager across from him, looked to the shirt he’s positive he’d put in the laundry basket to be washed, and then took a large mouthful of coffee in the hopes that it would drown out the panic that was rising in his chest.

What was his life.

He should have stayed in Beacon Hills.

The devil you know, right?

He hummed, sniffed the coffee and looked down into its black depths for the answers to the universe. It was good. Really good. He took another mouthful, looked up at her as she waited expectantly, bounced on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

Swallowing, he frowned deeply and scowled, “wearing my shirt is one thing, but my boxer briefs too? Really?”

“They’re comfortable?” And she had the good graces to look sheepish.

“They’re Calvin Klein, they’re sixty-bucks a pair. Take them off.”

She paused in her nervous bouncing, blinked at him, at Fenris, and then went for the waistband of the trunks.

Peter lost his coffee – and his dignity – in his rush to stop her.

“Stop! Keep them! They’re yours!”

“Really? Wow, thanks!” The grin she gave him shouldn’t have tightened his chest.

He looked away, ignored the way the shirt split when she curled up on the chair to his left, the buttons straining to keep everything _behind, safe, away from sight._

“Would you like breakfast now?” Without waiting for his answer, she clapped, the sudden noise startling both males before the empty plate in front of him was full, piled high with eggs and bacon and waffles.

_Waffles._

Real ones, not the ones that came in a box from the freezer isle.

She’d forced her way into his apartment, into his life. She’d invaded and overrun his study, stolen his expensive clothes, made herself quite at home, and used magic to make him breakfast with real waffles.

And she’d refilled his coffee.

He met Fenris’ gaze across the table, answered his teenage smirk with a glare, and accepted that this was his life now.

Whether he liked it or not.


	3. She's A Witch, Not A Crossroads Demon

Peter shouldn’t have been surprised that getting the pair to concentrate was impossible.

After the strange but admittedly pleasant breakfast, Peter had kept things stern and to the point. Or at least he’d tried. At the mention of rules and contracts and _stop stealing my shit_ , the pair had taken it upon themselves to giggle behind their hands like conspiring toddlers.

At least the teenagers in Beacon Hills had had the good graces to be afraid of him.

These two?

They answered his scowl with smothered laughter and bright, tear-sparkling eyes.

What the hell had he done to deserve this?

He sighed, slumped in his chair and covered his face with his hands. Everything he said was somehow taken as a joke and he didn’t think he had it in him to deal with it anymore. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

At the deep and vicious growl growing in his chest, Tanith shushed the teen with a hand over his mouth and grinned at Peter, “He’s doing the thing!”

And the growl was gone, cut off with a scoff that just caused more giggles.

Peter slammed his fist on the table and felt no small amount of delight when the teenager jumped. The witch though, she just continued smiling, either unaffected or unafraid.

And didn’t that just rub Peter up the wrong way.

“Enough,” Peter growled, stared the younger wolf down until he looked away and bared his throat. He turned his gaze on the witch next, and knew then and there that maybe she wasn’t so buckets of crazy.

She studied him, met his stare and held it. The challenge wasn’t lost on Peter, and his wolf snarled beneath the surface, clawed at his mind and begged to get out, begged to fight. As if reading his thoughts, the witch slipped up to his side, touched a hand to his clenched fist and smiled as the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Alright,” she covered his hand, squeezed softly and then pulled away. Peter watched her as she stood and moved around him, kept his gaze focused as she stopped at the empty side of the table and lifted her hands.

The sudden clap startled both wolves, had their hearts skipping and their eyes flashing. The magic was instant, a thrumming pulse of white that was there one second and gone the next. Peter took in the three sheets of aged parchment in front of the witch and groaned.

“What century are you living in?”

Brows pinched in confusion, she looked between both males and whined, “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Parchment? Really?”

“I’m kind of intrigued,” Fenris muttered as he reached for the sheet, and yelped when electricity shot up his finger and set the hairs on his arm on end.

“Mind what you touch,” Peter smirked, and stood to get himself a drink. A strong one, he was going to need it.

“Human contracts are fine, but so easily broken. There’s no deterrent, nothing stopping you from doing as you please despite what you’ve signed. These,” she waved a hand, encompassed the parchment with a happy smile. “Are far from simple.”

Peter rolled his eyes and filled his glass with a generous three fingers of whiskey, “Witches.”

“Fucking ace,” Fenris grinned, his eyes wide with wonder.

His excitement shouldn’t have endeared Peter, it really shouldn’t have, but some things couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t made of stone after all.

“So,” Fenris started, his eyes locked on his finger as he rubbed away the tingling. When it subsided, he looked at Tanith, his expression dark. “Do we sign in blood? Or, like, a kiss or something?”

The high trill of Tanith’s laughter shouldn’t have curled around Peter’s chest the way it did. He downed his drink in one gulp, refilled his tumbler and brought the decanter back to the table with him.

“She’s a witch, Fenris, not a crossroads demon. No kissing is required.”

“How do you know?”

And, well.

Peter didn’t have an answer for that, so he hid behind his alcohol and pretended like he simply didn’t care.

“No, little wolf, I require neither blood, nor a kiss. Though, the spell can be sealed anyway you wish, so if a kiss is–”

“Let’s not forget that he’s only sixteen, perfectly _illegal_ ,” Peter winked at the teen, lifted his glass in mock salute before drinking.

“Who said I was talking to him?”

Peter choked on his whiskey.

The amused pinch of her lips wasn’t lost on Peter, but he chose to ignore it.

Producing a fancy looking quill out of thin air, she sent a look to Peter, to Fenris, and smiled, “Let’s start with boundaries’, okay?”

“We sorted that out before you moved in,” Fenris answered Peter’s displeased snort with an eye roll and continued, “Our rooms are our own space, they’re off limits to others unless they’re invited in.”

“Invited in? How very vampiric!”

“Vampires, right, because they’d be real too. Fucking hell, that’s creepy. Also terrifying.”

Peter chuckled and stared the teen down, “Need I remind you that you’re a werewolf?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m not a fucking vampire! They’re dead! They’re dead and they drink blood and get all up in your mind and make you do shit!”

“I don’t know about that, the vampires I’ve met have been nothing but gentlemanly and rather quite charming.”

“Charming,” Fenris muttered, leaned in closely, conspiratorially, “That’s their mind control.”

“And here I thought they’d just wanted an orgy,” she giggled, the sound far too childish for such a statement.

Peter emptied the decanter and longed for a drunken haze he’d never known.

Shoving aside the sudden disappointment with his drink, he swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler and pointed to the contracts, “Back to the task at hand. Unless invited in or given specific permission – permission that expires when the invited party exits unless specified – we do not and cannot go into each others bedrooms.”

“Agreed,” Fenris grinned, jumped to his feet and wandered into the kitchen to grab himself a drink. He returned with a Coke, snapped it open and guzzled down half of the can in one go before he sat.

“We’re in agreement,” she flicked her wrist absently, smiled at Fenris when he chuffed as the quill swirled and scrawled and scratched their words onto the parchment of its own will.

“Holy shit that’s cool! You’re like that witch from the Little Mermaid! Which, I haven’t seen,” he covered his rising blush with his drink and the feathery-black of his fringe.

“Ahh, Ursula, my spirit animal,” she hummed happily, her eyes far off for a long moment before she cleared her throat and laughed. “I propose that anything labelled is off limits. For instance, if I put my name on something, like a potion or the last slice of cake, no one can touch it.”

“No,” Peter drawled, and sighed when he found his glass empty. Without a word, Tanith waved a hand and his decanter was once again full of amber-gold. Peter thanked her with a look and poured himself another glass. “I think we should simply respect each others stuff without the need for crazy labeling. If you didn’t buy it, don’t use it. Having that sort of rule in the contract is just asking for a labeling war.”

“Afraid you might end up as someone’s property?”

Peter ignored the heat in her look, the quirk of her lips and waved his glass at her, “I’d rather not wake up one morning to find my living room covered in strips of named white. It’s simple playground etiquette, don’t take what’s not yours.”

“What if it’s food in the fridge that might go off? Can we eat it or do we leave it?”

“You ask,” Peter answered blandly, and sent the sheepish teenager a look.

Peter noticed the shift in the atmosphere, the subtle change in stance and scent. Anxiety smothered by curious sincerity. He didn’t miss the way she curled her fingers into the too-long arms of his shirt, or the way her nerves caused her to rub her toes to the back of her ankle.

He read between the lines of the unasked question, held her gaze as she waited for him to deny her his clothing. It was a silent pleasure to watch her squirm, even if only a little.

He broke eye contact and swirled his drink instead, hid his smirk behind his glass. It was good to hold the power once again.

It was Fenris who broke the silence, brow creased with confusion, “You two are weird.”

“Thanks!” And she really shouldn’t have enjoyed the subject change so much, or taken so much pride in the insult.

Peter rolled his eyes, “We need more rules. All that magic for one sentence seems like a waste. Would you sit down?”

“It’s nothing, really. I could do this in my sleep!” She smiled, a slight blush to her cheek as she returned to her seat, curled her arms around her knees and eyed him.

His wolf preened. She was learning.

Or she was letting him win.

Most likely the latter.

Sighing, Peter set his glass aside and rested against the back of his chair, “Next rule. While I’m okay with allowing you to have a few friends over here and there, if I come home and you’ve turned my apartment into a frat house, I’ll kill you. Violently.”

“I don’t have any friends.” Fenris grinned, as if being a loner was finally doing him good.

Blinking, Tanith raised her hand, smiled sheepishly and lowered it before speaking, “I don’t have anyone either.”

Peter looked between them slowly, tried to ignore the difference in their admissions. Well, that was just depressing.

He lifted his glass again, gulped it down and tried to burn out the pity that was roiling in his gut. Why should he care? It’s not like he wasn’t alone.

Which, wasn’t really true.

He had Derek.

He had Cora.

Even if they didn’t want him around, he still had them.

_Ugh._

“Okay, well, for future reference; no raves, no parties, no large groups of random people.”

The pair both hummed their assent, and away the quill went, scribbling with the scratch of ink and magic. Once it settled, he looked the contract over, noted the elegant swirl of dated script and wondered not for the first time what century she was living in.

“I’m hungry.”

Perking up at the teenager’s words, Tanith smiled brightly and clapped her hands. He ignored the way she seemingly glowed when the teen babbled happily, eyes bright over the boxes of Chinese that appeared out of nowhere.

Maybe Peter wasn’t the only one who simply wanted someone to appreciate what he had to offer.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was simply lonely.

And he knew, it was one thing to like being alone, and another thing entirely to feel lonely.

No one liked that feeling, not even a burned out husk of a person like him.


	4. A Lullaby For Wolves

Peter stared at the box of noodles in front of him, picked it up on instinct and wielded the wooden chopsticks like a seasoned pro. Which he was.

And which Fenris clearly was not.

“Perhaps a fork would be of better use to you?”

Fenris looked up from his struggle, his brows pinched in frustrated concentration, “No way, I got this.”

Five minutes later and Fenris had conceded that he did not, in fact, have it.

They ate in silence for several long minutes, switched boxes here and there. Peter noticed more often than not that Tanith seemed to pilfer his food more than was acceptable, but she always looked guilty when he made it known that he’d noticed.

After the fifth time she’d poked her chopsticks into his box of satay, he relinquished the meal and picked up the container of dumplings, “We have two rules, neither of which are really worthy of being magically bound in a contract. We need more.”

Fenris whined around his mouthful of black bean and hurried to chew and swallow before he spoke, “I’ve never actually lived with anyone before, not like this. I don’t know what kind of rules should count. We had rules at the orphanage but I doubt they’d matter much here. Keep your feet off the furniture, no running in the hallways, do this, don’t do that. Blah, blah, fucking blah. Ugh, fuck those guys.”

“Speaking of orphanages and contracts, we should probably make a start on your birth certificate.”

Curious, Tanith perked up in her seat, his satay held closely to her chest, “Birth certificate?”

“Long story.”

“It’s really not,” Peter stared the other wolf down blandly and sighed. “He can’t read–”

“Really? You lead with that?”

“And he needs to go back to school. He doesn’t have any papers and he’ll need them. I can get them made up, but it could take a few weeks. Better to start sooner rather than later.”

Tanith flicked a confused look between them, her brows pinched at the middle before she pursed her lips and rolled a hand in a questioning gesture, “Why don’t you just forge them?”

“I will be forging them, but if we want them to be believable, they need to be the best. And the best takes time.”

“Amateur,” she muttered.

Peter was about to respond when she clicked her fingers and a stack of papers landed in front of him with a rustle. He looked at her blankly and refused to return her smile.

“Fill them out and when they’re sealed, they’ll be as real as anyone's.”

“Sealed?” Fenris asked around a mouthful of noodles.

“This sort of contract really does need blood, but just a drop. Enough to tie written identity to physical self.”

“So I just prick my finger and presto, I’m a new person?”

She nodded, set her food aside and tapped a finger to the papers, “The seal will set the magic, and the magic will acknowledge you as yourself. Any paperwork that’s out there with any tie to you will be gone. It’s old magic but useful all the same.”

“And it works?”

“Of course,” she grinned at him, ignored the tone of voice he’d used. “I’ve been doing this for immortal folk from all walks of life for a fair while now. It wouldn’t do for society to wonder how someone has a birth certificate with an impossible birth date on it, now would it? They get to keep the very original, it helps keep them grounded and linked to their roots, but Fenris doesn’t have the originals and I doubt he wants them.”

“I don’t.”

“So these will become his originals and they’ll be bonded to him. Think of it as law, but on another level. Humans won’t know the magic behind it, and other supernatural beings won’t ask questions. Just know that whatever you put in there will be permanent, and undoing it will come at a great cost. Try to be smart about what you want your origin to be, and try to keep it as close to the truth as possible.”

Peter looked down at the stack in front of him, flicked through the first few pages and with a sigh, regretted ever opening his doors to _people_.

He should have gotten a cat, or a fish.

Maybe a snake.

He could relate to a snake.

He felt eyes on him, looked up to find Fenris staring at him with uncertainty all over his youthful face. Either he was confused and looking for guidance, or he was worried Peter was going to decide this was all too much trouble and just kick him out.

Probably both.

Peter pushed the documents away from himself and met the teens gaze, “These will be your certificates, you should read over them and decide what you want to put in them. Choose an origin story that you’ll be happy to stick to and that is easily believed. Don’t get too creative, try to stick to what you already know about your past.”

“I had a mother who dumped me and a father who pretty much doesn’t exist. I could have been the result of a divine pregnancy for all I know–”

“Divine pregnancy? You really think so?”

“I’m a teenage fucking werewolf sitting at a table eating magically acquired Chinese food with a witch of unknown origins and an omega werewolf with a shady background, and all the while we’re discussing forging magical fucking baby-certs as if we’re grocery shopping. Divine pregnancy doesn’t sound like too much of a fucking stretch.”

Peter couldn’t help but stare. Besides the swearing, this kid reminded him a little too much of another teenager he’d known.

_Ugh._

“It really is like grocery shopping though. We’re grocery shopping for your identity!”

Both werewolves gave the witch their best bland expressions.

Which she completely ignored in favor of grinning and slowly prying the dumplings from Peter’s fingers. He let her have them with an eye roll.

“Just read the documents. Take your time, figure your story out. If these are as instantaneous as Tanith says they are, you’ve got a week to figure it out before school starts back up. If you have questions, or you want to run your story by one of us, you should. If you want to create it with our help, you just have to ask.”

“I might seem a little…”

Crazy.

Unhinged.

Completely certifiable.

“Unbalanced,” she paused, tested the word with a series of complicated facial expressions before she smiled and continued. “But I’ve been doing this for a very long time. I can help you create whatever you want to create. I can help you tell whatever story you want to tell. And don’t worry about slipping up or forgetting, once it’s in the certificate you’ll always remember that as your origins.”

“So I’ll forget that I was left for dead and grew up in a child-prison?”

She blinked at him, contemplated it for a long second before she shared a look with Peter and frowned, “Well, no. But you’ll never cross your stories, or slip up on your details.”

“For arguments sake, if I like the lie we weave so well, can you cast some spell or wave your hand or whatever and make me forget the rest?”

Peter studied the teen, saw the resolute determination in his eyes, and hummed, “I imagine there are spells, but witches aren’t the only ones that can take memories away.”

“You’re talking about Alpha werewolves, aren’t you? I heard about that happening, thought it was a myth or something. But it doesn’t matter, you’re no more alpha than I am. We have a witch. Magic it is.”

“Taking away memory isn’t as simple as it seems, Fenris, nor is it without its risks or its costs.”

And Peter wasn’t sure how to feel about how rational she sounded all of a sudden. It put him on edge.   

“So I’ll pay the price, I’ll take the risk,” he set his food aside with too much force, inhaled several times and only seemed to wind himself tighter. When he looked up, his eyes were a vibrant gold, “If it means not feeling like I wasn’t wanted, like I wasn’t fucking good enough, then I’ll do whatever it fucking takes.”

Peter was about to step in, about to show his own wolf. He didn’t like the challenge behind the teens eyes, the clench of his jaw, but the moment passed, the fire gone as quickly as it had flared. He looked to the teens hands, rested on the table in tight fists, and watched as they eased under the calming touch of the witch’s fingertips.

She waited a moment, waited for the teen to exhale, before she moved to his side, covered his hand with hers and touched her other hand to his hair. It was motherly, a gentle carding of long fingers through dark strands, and Peter wondered not for the first time what secrets this witch kept.

He averted his gaze, turned it on his decanter and lifted it to fill his glass. He listened as she started humming, a soft and haunting tune that weaved some invisible spell. Fenris calmed, slumped in his seat and all but fell asleep.

Peter didn’t notice his hands were shaking until he poured whiskey all over the table.

[He knew that lullaby.](https://youtu.be/19bBGxf5k6k)

He looked up as he was dragged back to his youth, his head a foggy mess of memories he’d spent too long trying to forget.

He was in his room, covers tight beneath his chin as a storm raged beyond his window. His mother sat at his side, smiled down at him as she combed her fingers through is hair and sang him his lullaby.

He was surrounded by blood, on his knees with tears in his eyes. His mother took his hands, pulled him close and told him it was okay, that the first shift, the first hunt, was always the hardest. He buried his tears in her chest and let her gentle song soothe him.

He was curled up in the corner of what remained of his destroyed room, his fists bloodied and his claws curled around his knees. His head hurt, his heart ached. His mother curled up beside him, his best friend, the only one who didn’t tease or laugh or give him pitying looks. His first real love had broken his heart, his hope. His mother pressed her lips to his temple, told him that he was better off without someone like that in his life, that he’d find someone worthy of him one day. He didn’t believe her, so she told him that he could only be hurt by others if he allowed it, that he shouldn’t get angry when those around him betrayed him, that he should learn to get even. She whispered words of revenge, told him to play the game smart and not hard, and then she sang him his song to ease the last of his pain.

He was at her grave, the earth freshly turned and mounded smoothly. He didn’t cry, he didn’t feel. He touched a hand to her marble headstone and sang her his song.

Peter came back to the sound of glass shattering.

He looked to his hand, found the shards stabbing harshly into his palm, his blood dripping hot into the whiskey pooled beneath. He ignored the witch, the wolf, and pushed back from the table with enough force to send his chair toppling. The shards were easily removed, tossed onto the table to rest with the other fragments of shattered crystal.

His head throbbed, his chest too tight.

He snatched up his keys, his wallet, his phone, and slammed the door behind him. He needed to get away from the smell of home, the sound of his mother in his ear, his head.

He needed to get away from himself.

And he needed to get away from his wolf, a part that was all too easily accepting the oblivious pair as pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did those feels get in there?
> 
> I think the lullaby from Pan's Labyrinth - which is an incredible movie that I highly recommend - fits perfectly. 
> 
> Also, Peter and his mother being super close is my headcanon.


End file.
